


Paris Retreat

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming, come_at_once round 7, vague references to the Oscar Wilde trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: Holmes and Watson are enjoying one another in a permissive area of Paris in a plush hotel on what I like to think of as their 'escaping controversy' tour of 1895.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Round 7 of the Come At Once (if convenient) 24 hour Porn Challenge. My prompt from Swiss Miss was 'Cupid's Arrow'.
> 
> Thanks to tiger and Merindab (janto321) for cheerleading and betaing.

As we unpacked our trunks and settled in, I made an interesting discovery. The room was discretely stocked with French Letters, and I said as much to my companion.

Holmes turned to take one with a smile. “Here they are referred to as _‘capote Anglaise’_ or English hood. Amusing that we blame one another for their use. Some think the name a play on the scandalous nature of French love letters, but actually the most likely origin of "French letters" lies in an interesting, but now obsolete verb ‘let’, meaning ‘to hinder or prevent,’ as they are used to prevent pregnancy or disease-”

I stopped his explanation with a kiss. “We don’t have need of them, love, so fascinating as their history or even their presence in our room might be, I would far prefer to move to action than explication.”

He kissed me back. “Perhaps I have not recently enough remarked upon your prowess for cutting straight to the heart of the matter. 

We fell back upon the bed together and did not get up again for some hours.

... 

Some days later I lounged in the bedroom chair watching Holmes as he looked out over the garden and smoked his pipe, his thin silhouette reminding me that we should seek dinner soon. Our rooms here in Paris are a pleasant suite with a bedroom, bath, and a generous sitting room besides and we hadn’t left them all that frequently since we arrived. No one in this district have batted an eye at two men sharing such quarters as are clearly meant for a couple on honeymoon and the like. A needed change from the current climate at home and it feels as though we can breathe more freely here. I am certain we shall miss the comfort of our Baker Street apartments soon enough, but for now we are at ease and shall stay abroad at least another few months, until things have died down. There was no case on when we left on our tour, but of course Sherlock Holmes always finds a case, or one finds him. Either way, we have certainly not wanted for business or pleasure in our time away. 

Thinking more of pleasure this evening than of any other pursuit, my eye fell upon the thin volume on the low table before me. I had begun to scan it earlier and found it filled with filthy stories and poetry. Somehow it had appeared upon the bedside table this afternoon. I cleared my throat as I began to thumb through it once more. 

Holmes glanced over his shoulder. A slight quirk of his mouth confirmed that he knew what I was reading, and though I am sure he would have had some method of deducing it anyway, who but he would have put it there? 

“Perhaps,” he said, “You might entertain us both by reading aloud.”

He set aside his pipe and sauntered into the bedroom, letting his dressing gown fall. I followed, book in hand, and was treated to a sight that never fails to fill me with awe. 

My Holmes lay back on the bed, his pale lithe form a stark contrast with the purple velvet of the throw pillows that littered the bed. He luxuriated in the soft, warm nest of our bed, and the freedom here. No worries of being imminently called to a crime scene or of Mrs. Hudson bustling in, for though I suspect she has always known exactly who she was lodging, I scarce feel the need to treat her for a heart attack we’ve caused with a spectacular visual confirmation of her supposition. In truth his relaxation was as enticing as his body on display.

I curled up beside him and began to read as he had requested. The text was at times merely sensual and at others explicit and bawdy, but when I got to the line, ‘He revealed a delicate rosebud that had not yet been anointed with dew, petals as yet unopened to cupid’s arrow of love.’ we both, I must confess, dissolved into laughter. It did nothing to douse the flames we kindled for one another, however, did cause me to cast the book aside and turn my full attention upon Holmes. He met my gaze and stroked himself fully from root to tip, spreading his things in invitation.

I needed no more than that and shifted so that I could kiss the delicate flesh of his inner thighs, working them up over my shoulders. Drawing him close, I kissed and kneaded the globes of his plush arse. He hummed in delight, but when I bent my head lower to lap at the furrow between the plush cheeks of his arse, he shuddered and sighed, fairly vibrating at the touch of my lips and tongue. 

I slid my hands down to spread the cheeks further apart and pressed the tip of my tongue against the tight whorl of puckered flesh, savoring the guttural moan of pleasure my attentions drew from him. 

I caressed him in long teasing strokes, lapped with the flat of my tongue, until I felt him opening to me.

At last I pulled back, wiping off my mouth and moustache with the back of my hand. “Hand me that bottle of oil, my love, or I fear you'll feel the 'sting of cupid's arrow' in more than a literary sense.” 

Holmes giggled and ah, how I had missed his laugh in the flurry of days before we left London. He handed over the bottle. I drizzled the oil lightly over my fingers and pressed one against his skin, soft and damp with my saliva already. 

“Yes, Watson,” he panted. “Touch me. I need you.” He shook with need, his hands fisted in the sheets as if to anchor himself. 

I applied firmer pressure and he let out a groan as I breached him at last.

I was nearly overwhelmed, the sight of my Holmes spread out before me, quivering and ready to come undone, the feeling of him, blood hot and tight around my fingers, all conspired to make my cockstand pulse with more insistent need. “Soon, love,” I murmured. “You’ll be ready for me soon.”

He arched up against me, no longer content with my careful pace. 

I gave a playful swat to his hip. “Not too fast, love. We don’t want to hurt you.”

He flung one arm across his eyes and grumbled good-naturedly, something about my use of ‘we’ I think, though it was a bit muffled and I was, to be sure, otherwise engaged. I added a second finger, causing him to gasp. 

I pressed a kiss to his stomach as I worked my fingers in and out, feeling him pulsed around me. I crooked my fingers, unerringly finding that spot that he always said made him see stars. When he was muttering an incoherent mixture of French, English and something which I am fairly certain was ancient Greek, half sentences and little pleading sound which weren’t even quite words, I took pity on the both of us and lined up, pressing forward to the hilt in one go.

His murmurings subsided, then coalesced again into one syllable repeated infinitely, my Christian name, sounding sweeter to me ears than it ever had.

He clung to me, rocking his hips up to meet my every thrust. He wrapped his legs around me, locking his ankles together in the small of my back to pull me ever closer.

I braced myself on one hand and with the other wrapped around his length, allowing our rhythm together to guide my strokes. 

His hips stuttered and he cried out, spilling over my hand as I spilled within him. 

I lay my head on his chest and I listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal. 

I’m not sure how long we dozed together before making our ablutions and seeking out a fine supper. I am certain I have never felt more content 

...

One or two of our adventures on this tour might find their way into my next publication. Most, however, would not be fit to print. Well, not through _my_ publicist at an rate. Perhaps in a volume like my Homes left to inspire us. I smiled at the thought. 

This journal, however, will remain quite safe in the false bottom of my trunk for my eyes alone. If Holmes looks askance at the romantic version of our mysteries that I sell to Strand Magazine, I imagine he would have little use for the color of his eyes set into verse or lovemaking written out in all its glorious and lengthy detail. Still, I do not quite have his mind, so can I help it if I long to remember these golden days once our twilight years have come upon us? 

I like to think that if he finds this, he will understand.


End file.
